THE EARL (A HAMMER FOR PRINCES) (12 page)

“Leaving, are you? But you’ve always been hasty.” He laughed. “And there’s my namesake. Good morning, Rannulf.”

Fulk stopped on the bottom step to talk to him; the height of the step brought them nearly eye to eye. “I named him Rannulf for my grandfather,
Chester
. I can promise that it was in spite of you.”

Chester
laughed again. His eyes veered toward Rannulf. "Nonetheless I feel a kinship."

Fulk hoped that was an illusion.
Chester
was wearing a belt of gold links that caught the sun. “That’s a very fine belt, my lord.”

“I got it here, in Tutbury,”
Chester
said. “Maybe you can find one on your way south. I’ll watch over your heir while you’re gone.” He bowed elaborately to Rannulf. “Good luck, Fulk. Watch that spider of an uncle of yours.” He swaggered off across the courtyard, surrounded by his hangers-on.

“He agrees with you about Thierry,” Rannulf said.

Fulk’s head bobbed. “Roger, we should get down to the camp.”

“I don’t think you want to, really,” Roger said. He held Fulk’s horse by the bridle while Fulk mounted. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Hello, Roger,” Rannulf said.

Fulk slung his leg forward over his horse’s shoulder and bent down to check his girth. “Rannulf, there’s your squire.”

“I see him.” Rannulf plunged off across the courtyard to get his horse. Roger mounted and stretched his arms over his head.

“What’s wrong in the camp?” Fulk asked.

“We were gone too long—they’re lazy bastards, they go around telling each other what to do and do nothing themselves.”

“We’ll have a good hard march to get them in shape again.”

Talking, they rode down toward the castle gate; they passed a group of men, standing and talking, and Fulk raised his hand to them. One of them called his name and stepped backward out of the group, turning toward him. Fulk stopped his horse. At first he didn’t recognize the man, but when he came up to him he saw that it was William Louvel, a
Norman
knight.

“My lord,” Louvel said. “God be with you—are you going now?”

“As soon as I can. You’re with the prince, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Aren’t you?” Louvel scratched Fulk’s horse under the jaw, and it rubbed its head against his arm.

“In a manner of speaking. He’s sent me off to ride his flank, and, by the way, take
Sulwick
Castle
. Have you ever been there?”

Louvel shook his head positively. “I have never heard of it. Where is it?”

“Southeast of my
castle
of
Bruyère-le-Forêt
, in Hertford.” Through the tail of his eye he saw Rannulf coming on his chestnut horse. “Well. I’ll see you again in
Wallingford
. Don’t take it all before I get there.”

With a laugh, Louvel stood back. “God support you. Good marching.” He went back toward his friends, and Fulk, Rannulf, and Roger went out the gate, into the steep narrow streets of Tutbury.

“How far east of us will you be riding?” Rannulf said.

Fulk reined his horse around a hole in the road. On either side, rows of thatched roofs descended the hill like steps. “Not far. A few days away. If the king tries to cut Henry off from
Wallingford
, we’ll screen your flank and warn you.” All the houses they had passed were empty. Fulk looked curiously in through their gaping doors. The siege had driven out all the people. He heard a muffled clanking inside one hut and bent to see through the door: a lean yellow dog was trying to turn over a broken pot. A wagon rumbled up the street, and Fulk straightened and eased his horse into line behind Roger so that it could pass them. They had to wait while another wagon worked its way around a corner. A brisk wind was blowing the midden smell out of the town.

Prince Henry intended to march straight on
Bedford
and seize it before he turned at last to
Wallingford
. It was
Wallingford
that had called him into
England
in January; King Stephen was besieging it steadily and the people had begged Prince Henry to their aid.

Wallingford
stood like gate into the upper valley of the
Thames
, where most of the fighting of the war had gone on. Stephen had spent much of his reign trying to gain possession of it, although typically he had never pressed a siege to its conclusion. Fulk had been there only once. The heavy splints on his arm hurt him, and he tried to shift the weight.

“God’s bones. They haven’t even loaded the wagons.” He kicked his horse into a jog down the last street to the plain. The camps of the other lords in Tutbury stretched out on either side, all boiling with action; in the center of Fulk’s camp the train of wagons stood empty and waiting. Some of the men still sat around their dead fires eating bread and drinking watered wine. Fulk rode through the camp to the wagons.

“Here,” Roger shouted, and rode into the middle of a circle of men not far away. “You and you, go bring those barrels here and load them on. You, go fetch the oxen. You and you—”

To Rannulf, Fulk said, “How long were we gone? They knew better before we left for
Stafford
.” But his pleasure at the thought of leaving would not fade. The sun was already hot; he shaded his eyes to look across the camp. Roger like a high wind swept through it, and in his wake men leaped up and ran around, gathering their gear, picking up, and bringing barrels and chests and bundles up to the wagons.

Rannulf said, “If I were you, my lord—look, is that Simon d’Ivry?”

“Yes.” Simon was one of a pack of young knights surrounding Thierry, who stood head and shoulders above them all, his head bowed like a kindly tutor listening to his charges. Rannulf pulled his horse up behind Fulk’s.

“I haven’t seen Simon—I’ll go talk to him, if you don’t mind. Hello, Morgan. Father, mark you don’t go before I see you again.” He raced off across the camp toward Thierry, dodging the men working in his way.

Fulk grunted. The men around him were finally loading the wagons, swearing at the weights of the chests and barrels. There was little enough—salted meat, flour, kegs for water; they would have only half a dozen wagons in all. Morgan was making himself busy.

“Morgan. Find me a piece of sheepskin. Not too large.”

Roger was coming back. Two teams of oxen, dragging their traces, trudged up to the first of the wagons. Fulk had always admired their way of going, never fast but never really slow, their short thick legs stamping down firmly in the dust, decisive. He rode up to watch the carters hitch them to the wagon.

“We’ll make no pace with those,” a knight said, and snorted.

Fulk did not reply. Prince Henry would move relatively slowly and Fulk had no wish to outride him. He was pleased that he had been commanded to ride flank. Farther to the east the forage was not so wasted, and everything he did relied on him alone. Morgan came back with a flap of sheepskin.

“My lord,’ Roger called. He trotted his horse up to Fulk’s; the gray’s neck was blue-black with sweat. “We should be ready to leave at noon.”

Morgan had climbed up onto the nearest wagon, and Fulk rode closer to him. “I wanted to leave this morning.”

Morgan was rolling the hide into a fat bundle; he thrust it into Fulk’s armpit to cushion the weight of the splints.

“If we leave at noon we should reach a good campground before dark.” Roger slapped a mosquito on his neck. “I know we left this camp in good order.”

“Thank you, Morgan. I should have left you commanding them,” Fulk said to Roger. “They obey you, and they don’t obey de Brise.”

“Sieges are bad for discipline.”

Fulk nodded. “Let de Brise and his men ride forward, when we march. Who can ride rearguard?”

“The men of Bruyère in
Normandy
, they’re the most orderly.”

Rannulf rode up, with Simon d’Ivry behind him. “Father, when are you going?”

“By noon, I think. Good morning, Sir Simon.”

Simon bowed. “My lord.” He was all
Norman
, red-faced and red-headed, already massive in the chest and shoulders; Rannulf looked like a reed beside him, although they were the same age. “My lord,” Simon said, “we have a request of you—Sir Thierry Ironhand and I and my men and Sir William and Sir Rabel wish to be vanguard.”

Fulk glanced at Roger. “We were just discussing that, and we had decided to put the lord of Brise in front.”

“My lord, we request this honor especially.”

Fulk sat still a moment, thinking of Thierry, of his yearning for glory. “Guy de Brise is a soldier of long experience. Let him ride forward for the while. We can rearrange the order of march at any time, and we doubtless will.” Thierry apparently had only two of his own men with him, silent, weatherbeaten knights whose names Fulk did not know. “If you wish, Sir Simon, you may ride rearguard.”

“The rearguard!” Simon flushed; his broad shoulders hunched. “My lord, if it should—”

“If you decline it, Sir Simon, at least don’t’ expand on the topic.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Simon’s voice was clipped. “I take my leave.” He jerked his horse around and spurred away.

“Simon is very blunt,” Rannulf said. “You always know what he thinks.”

“He’s been listening to Thierry. Here comes de Brise. Are we ready? No. God’s blood. We were gone less than ten days. Rannulf, do you have wine with you?”

“No. I thought you’d bring some.”

“Here.” Roger held out a wineskin, and Fulk pulled the stopper and drank. Even the wine was hot from the sun; it tasted leathery. De Brise rode up and reached for the wine.

“Excellent weather,” de Brise said. “are we taking all these wagons with us?”

Fulk nodded. “I hope you’re ready to beat off outlaws. You don’t know how ruined the kingdom is until you try to go anywhere on the roads. You know Rannulf, of course.”

“I met him first in his cradle.” De Brise shook Rannulf’s hand. “Coming with us? It should be an interesting campaign.”

“No, I’m going with the prince.” Rannulf smiled. Something in the cast of his face suddenly reminded Fulk of Margaret, but when he tried to define it, he could not.

“Good luck,” de Brise said. “And keep your own counsel, my lord.”

Fulk said, “He’ll learn to, soon enough.”

“He’ll be more comfortable than we will be, I expect. I came to find out the order or march, my lord. Although I see we have the rest of the morning to while away before we leave.”

“You’ll ride vanguard. How many knights do you have?”

“Twelve. How far ahead do you wish me?”

“Within hearing if either of us uses a horn. Use your judgment. Around dusk find us a suitable campsite. No need to keep running back and forth to tell me what’s ahead, short of an ambush. You know the road to Bruyère-le-Forêt?”

De Brise nodded; he smiled, and crow’s-feet spread and deepened around his eyes. “Do you ever change the words?” To Rannulf: “Fifteen years, squire and knight, I have followed him, and ever he says the same thing.” He clapped Fulk gently on the good shoulder. “Ride soft, my lord. Ride soft.” He backed his horse away and rode to rejoin his men.

“I never knew you were such good friends,” Rannulf said, surprised.

“He’s a good man, for all he cannot command a camp.” A column of knights was forming behind the wagons. “Mark what he said—these men you’ll ride with are older and subtler than you.”

“Yes. Is there anything I should manage for you, with the prince?”

Fulk laughed. “No. Not really. You are going with them to watch and listen, not to manage affairs. I promise you, he has given me everything I wanted of him, or I would not be here now. I want him to grow used to thinking of you as my heir. Listen.”

From the castle, standing above them on its red rock, horns blasted. All the warhorses swung their heads up, ears pricked, and their wide nostrils distended. Fulk said, “You should go back, something is happening. Or someone might simply be going out and wanting a great display for it. Goodbye, Rannulf.”

“Goodbye, my lord.” Rannulf took Fulk’s left hand and kissed it. “I shall do my best.”

“God be with you. Remember to pray for your mother.”

Rannulf went off toward the road up to the castle. Roger said, “We should be ready soon.”

Fulk nodded. He was watching Rannulf ride up the narrow street, into the huts that grew up the steep side of the hill below the castle. For as long as he had ruled the Honor of Bruyère, Roger had served him nine months of the year, leaving his wife and children in his brother’s care. In the way that he knew the heat of the sun Fulk knew that Roger would not follow Rannulf, not as Rannulf was now.

Prince Henry was scarcely older than Rannulf, yet the great lords of
England
followed him without question.

“This should be good for him,” he said, too loudly. “For Rannulf.”

Roger was watching the men hitch another team to the wagon beside them. “By your leave, my lord, he’s been too away from the world.”